The house under construction next door is complete and people are moving in. I see appliances, furniture and clothes carried up as they begin to settle into a new house, a new location, and a new debt. I think of the houses in which I’ve lived—the one in which I was raised, where I lived as a young married woman, where we raised our son, and where I live now on the island. Each of these houses has a story to tell, and each represents a stage in my own life. I think too of God’s promise that He has prepared a home for me in Heaven, and that what He tells me is the truth. I can’t earn the money to buy this Heavenly mansion, nor can I do enough “good deeds” to merit it. This mansion is mine only as an act of grace and love. Sometimes when I focus too much on this world, I forget that future house bearing my name. Forgive me, Father, and help me live a life in accordance with your plan; welcome me when the time is right into my eternal dwelling. Amen.
Two fishermen were at the edge of the surf, fishing for whiting. I watched as they landed several fish, each excited over the other’s catch, each carefully storing the fish in a cooler for later eating. I’m reminded that Jesus chose fishermen as his first disciples, selecting those who had learned to net fish, teaching them next to catch people. Are there similarities in the two processes? Certainly a fisherman must be patient, willing to take risks, to withstand uncomfortable surroundings, often returning empty handed, and most of all each must truly believe in what he does. Help me, Father, to be an effective fisher—may I learn patience, risk, discomfort and rejection as I try to lead people to you. Please increase my faith so my belief inspires others to seek you. Help me to catch and land—truly to be your disciple. Amen.
As I crossed over the boardwalk this morning, I met a woman taking a photograph from the walk, focusing on a giant stump half buried in the sand. I offered to take a picture of her on the walk, but she declined. I couldn’t help but look at the stump from her perspective. It was something I’d often photographed before, but always from the end of the walk, never from the high bridge over the dune. Suddenly the stump looked new and fresh, as if I’d never noticed it before. The change in angle and height had given me a different understanding and appreciation of what I’d come to take for granted. How easy it is to be blind to the familiar gifts that surround us each day, to fail to value the people closest to us who share our lives. Please help me, Lord, to walk through my day with eyes newly opened; help me see your world and the people in my life from a fresh perspective, loving both them and you more as a consequence. Amen.
The sign posted near the boardwalk warns that there is construction going on; “Beware of Splinters” it proclaims. I lift my feet as I walk, careful not to slide them along in a slouchy gait that has become habitual. Why, I wonder, do I too often drag my feet along, as if they’re heavy to raise? Am I like that in my daily religious walk as well, sliding along, picking up splinters and then wondering why my feet are sore? Perhaps I am, moving heavily through my days, finding petty matters to complain about, and whining when everything isn’t as I might like. Forgive me, Lord, for picking up splinters instead of moving through the day and the gifts you’ve given me with joy and wonder. Help me raise my feet and my spirits in response to your unending goodness. Amen.
Dear Heavenly Father—Christmas is a time to reminisce, to remember the past and celebrate early days. But Christmas is equally a time to look forward. The birth of Jesus itself was prophesied by sages centuries earlier, people who saw the promise Jesus would fulfill. The angels predicted Jesus’ purpose to Mary and Joseph, to the Shepherds, to the Wise Men. They looked ahead and reported what they saw in the future.
Jesus was not “Super Baby” who lifted strong men and performed crib-side miracles; he had a purpose assigned to him, and he continued to fulfill that purpose. It was to Jerusalem he was going, and all that happened there was part of his future. From the beginning he looked ahead, and lived his life with that future in mind.
As a church also we think of the future. What is our purpose on this island, in this county? What can we do to fulfill our purpose, to be true to the mission Christ has placed upon us? How do we grow? How do we minister? How do we best serve the world around us?
Finally, as individuals too we are called upon to consider our futures at this blessed time. Emmanuel means ‘God with us’—but what does God being with us mean? What does God’s immediate presence allow us to do? How can we make decisions that best define that God is with us?
On this Holy night, may each of us consider what Emanuel means and how it will affect our lives, change our lives. May we live each day demonstrating to all others that God is with us, and that our lives reveal His presence. May this Christmas become the Christmas that was different, one where we are different, and may God’s presence with us be clear to all who meet us. May we face the future with the sure knowledge—Emmanuel—God with us. Amen.
Dear Heavenly Father—I see all of my past Christmases as pages in a photograph album, each year a separate picture. Tomorrow there will be 80 pages. They begin with my earliest foggy memories—a doll, a stuffed Scotty dog, a trike. And then the pictures are clearer—the 8 of us including three grandparents. Some years there are fewer of us in the photo—first grandparents and then my father who died when he was 52.
There are funny pictures—the year Mother made me a green velvet skirt, but she didn’t have money enough to take the nap into consideration, so I had a dark green velvet skirt in front and a light green velvet skirt in back. I was narrator at the church service that year, and embarrassed. Mother said people would see me walk up the aisle and then down the aisle—no one would see me from the side. It’ll be fine, she said, and so it was.
We didn’t have a car during the war, so we took the bus to the Christmas Eve service; friends drove us home, all crowded into the back seat. My box of cheap candy, in a church-shaped box, spilled, and my heart was broken. A boy from catechism class gave me a gold bracelet—I didn’t have the sense to invite him in, but I still have the bracelet.
I remember the Christmas in 1973 when I had my first spinal surgery and spent 6 months in a body cast. My hospital bed and trapeze were decorated with lights and tinsel; two days before Christmas, the cast was sawed off and I could sit again. No more meals balanced on my chest—I could sit at the table like a real person! Finally I could bend and sit after 6 months of immobility! I felt like a queen despite the pain of muscles unused for six months.
I look at the photos and I see sadness—my sister in law’s drinking becoming a problem. My brother losing the will to live. My brother in law, an engineer, so deeply in the grips of his obsessive compulsive hoarding disorder that he lost his last job working in a giant junk yard because he refused finally to sell anything, no matter how it was exactly what the customer wanted. He so wanted to hold on to everything.
I see failures and betrayals, disappointments and sadness. I look out the windows and wars rage—WWI, the Korean War, the War in Viet Nam—on and on, war after war. Clustered around the tree are human beings, failed human beings, coming together to celebrate good tidings of great joy. We are imperfect creatures who gather to celebrate perfect love.
Can I rewrite history? Yes–I can go over each photo and forgive each beautiful person, not beautiful as in Hollywood or model beautiful, but beautiful because they were alive and real, struggling to do the best they could with what they had—what they knew. I can look at each face and say I forgive you—forgive me. I can be one with them, that modern day group of shepherds gathered around a tree—around a manger—and say, “With tonight’s gift we become perfected in love, in forgiveness. There is only this good news of great joy for us—for all people.”
And so Lord, I pray tonight that as we open the Christmas album of our lives– each individual here this morning–we will find there the beauty God intended, the beauty of imperfect people celebrating God’s perfect love. May we find pardon and love, may we be able to come together around a manger, around the good tidings of great joy, and rewrite the past to make it beautiful and whole. May we never stand so tall as when we kneel together around the birth of love, becoming ourselves perfected. May this Christmas enable each of us to find God’s presence in the pattern—in the photos—or our lives. Amen.
Our friends left today after their week’s visit with us. Together we saw so many things—pelicans, egrets, herons, dolphins, alligators, hundreds of different shells, and crabs galore—just some of the life we witnessed. I thought of all we witnessed and wondered if my friends’ love for the ocean was reflected in the ocean’s display on their behalf. Do those who walk in the world with love see a world made more loving because of their love reflected back to them? Do I, as a Christian, move through the day radiating God’s love and forgiveness in my own spirit of love and forgiveness? Do I see more good in the world, just as my friends saw more on the island in a short time than I’d noticed before, because of their own love and respect for nature and God? I wonder. Please help me, Lord, to see the beauties you share with me, help me extend my knowledge of your world to others, and please forgive me when I choose to be blind to your love—a love reflected not only in your son Jesus, but also in the world you’ve given us. Amen.
When the tide is just right, I can draw my foot in an arc at the water’s edge and sometimes reveal an array of coquina shells. How beautiful they are, each like half a butterfly in an amazing assortment of colors. Some are all one shade, others are striped, and others appear almost mottled. Exposed to the light and the air, they quickly dig themselves back into the sand, almost too quickly for me to observe, using invisible feet to displace the sand. When I find their shells open on the beach, they resemble a whole butterfly, each half duplicating the shape of a butterfly’s wing. One of my cookbooks suggests I could boil these coquina and make a seafood broth, but I prefer to appreciate them with my eyes. Thank you, Lord, for your bounty and your beauty. You give us both a visible and a hidden world whose beauty is staggering. Help me walk through the world in your company, thanking you daily for your gifts. Amen.
Sea foam washed over my feet as I waded at the dividing line between shore and surf. Like white soapsuds, the foam floated at the water’s edge, piled up in puffs on the beach, and scudded across the sand with each gust of wind. Caused by the agitation of the waves, the foam billows up quickly and seems to cover everything, but then disappears almost as quickly as it appeared. When the sun beats down and the wind abates, the foam vanishes, leaving no trace but a sticky scum. Sometimes situations in my own life create a kind of foam; I become upset and angry, fussing over details, annoyed by trifles, hurt over unintentional remarks. Help me, Lord, to ignore the foam that life generates, so I can continue to use my energy in your service. Give me the faith and patience to remain calm until the foam has subsided and the agitation vanishes. Amen.
Lately I notice that crab claws seem to litter the beach. The pincers look odd washing up on the shore’s edge, grasping and clinging to nothing at all. When they were still attached to the crab, they were constantly in motion, holding fast to prey or reaching out and combing the sand for more to eat. Now they lie inert and useless. Is this a lesson for me, I wonder? Do I spend too much of my time trying to ‘get’ things, trying to hold fast to what I have while acquiring still more? Will my grasping hands be all that people remember, all that remains of my past? Forgive me when I try to grab at the wrong things, when I’m unwilling to relinquish my hold on unimportant toys. Help me hold fast to your gifts of grace and eternal life. May I learn to open my hands and share your bounty with those in need. Amen.